Beside Two Rivers

15





The grind of carriage wheels rolled down the hillside and around the bend toward Havendale. Setting down her quill, Darcy leaned toward the window as the carriage rumbled closer. A pair of dapple-gray horses pranced toward the manor, their manes flowing in the breeze, their coats matching shades of moonlight. She slipped around the desk, drew her robe over her shoulders, and peeked back out the window. Down below, a hooded carriage slowed. A man stepped from it, dressed from shoulder to sole in black. He turned and held out his hand to a cloaked woman who hesitated, then set her foot onto the folded step and climbed out.

“Langbourne,” Darcy said aloud. “And Charlotte.”

He turned and walked ahead of his wife, charging up the steps to the front door. Darcy heard it close with a clamping of its lock. Then the coach rolled away. She waited to hear more—footsteps, voices, a knock on her door from Mrs. Burke to tell her she’d been summoned downstairs to meet the lord and master of Havendale. But none came, and she climbed under the covers of her bed and tried to fall asleep.

She wondered if Langbourne, being her father’s cousin, would look anything like her papa, if his appearance could spark some memory of him in her mind. Yet, trepidation at meeting Langbourne overwhelmed her curiosity, for her grandmother had no great opinion of him.

An hour after sunrise, she climbed from bed and set her bare feet onto the floorboards. They felt cool beneath her soles, like the autumn grass back home. She dressed, brushed her hair, and washed her face. Pink sunlight streamed through the windows like the iridescent wings of dragonflies. Motes sparkled within it, floating, twisting with each movement of air. She lifted her hand into the ray to feel its heat, then touched her palm to her heart and prayed that Langbourne and his wife would be kind and accepting of her. Perhaps they could be friends.

She’d learned the custom was to wait until the stroke of nine for breakfast. Upon the final strike of the hall clock, Darcy entered the dining room. A woman, seated alone and dressed in green stiff silk with a gray shawl across her shoulders, glanced up at her. Mrs. Burke poured tea into Charlotte’s china cup, then stood back.

“Mrs. Langbourne, this is Miss Darcy.”

Charlotte arched her brows. “Is it? I thought you would be taller.”

Darcy smiled lightly, lowered her eyes, and curtsied as was expected of her. “I hope I have not disappointed you, Mrs. Langbourne.”

Charlotte bit into a slice of toast. “No, not really.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Langbourne will be staying at Havendale a few days,” Mrs. Burke said, looking over at Darcy.

“Most likely weeks.” Charlotte drawled.

“I am pleased to meet you, Charlotte. May I address you as Charlotte? My grandmother has told me …”

Charlotte interrupted her with a lazy lift of her hand. “Well now. Just listen to that foreign accent of Miss Darcy’s, Mrs. Burke. It grates upon a more refined manner of elocution.”

If Darcy could have rolled her eyes without being thought of as rude, she would have. The manner in which Charlotte spoke about her shocked. “Perhaps I should not say another word, if it offends your ears, Charlotte,” she said in a quiet tone.

Mrs. Burke stood straight with her hands over her apron, looking at Charlotte displeased. “Miss Darcy’s accent is pleasant. She’s from Maryland, ma’am.”

“I am aware of that,” Charlotte replied. “I’ve never in my whole life met an American, let alone heard one speak.” She forced a smile. “So you must forgive my surprise, Darcy. And yes, you may call me Charlotte. We are cousins after all—in a way.”

Darcy tried to smile; yet it proved difficult. As she looked at Charlotte, she was reminded of Miss Roth and her haughty ways. But she would not pass judgment. She had no right, and had no idea what kind of life had molded Charlotte into the kind of woman she was purporting herself to be. Perhaps in time, her cold attitude would change as they got to know each other.

“I will admit that an Englishwoman’s voice, such as your own, is much smoother than mine,” Darcy said. “I tend to speak coarsely in comparison.”

Charlotte paused and looked Darcy up and down. “Indeed, that is true.” She glanced at the tea and waved it away with a look of disgust. “I prefer coffee.”

“I’ll have you know, Miss Charlotte, this tea cost forty shillings. It is as good as any coffee can be.”

“I do not care how expensive it was. It looks horrible.”

“Fine. I shall brew you some coffee. I hope you will not object to having a meat pie for supper.”

“Not at all. As long as you do not put onion in it, and we have a bread and butter pudding for dessert.”

“Whatever you wish, madam.” Mrs. Burke pursed her lips and stormed off with the tray. Back home, Uncle Will and Aunt Mari would have been overjoyed to have such fine tea and a hearty meat pie for supper. Obviously, Charlotte expected more extravagance.

“We had not expected you.” Charlotte’s expression was cool, absent of a smile. “Why did you not send us word you were coming?”

Darcy lowered herself to a chair and drank her morning tea. “I wrote to my grandmother. If I had known of you, then I would have written to you as well. Please accept my sincere apology.”

“Certainly I shall.” Charlotte leaned back and shut her eyes. “But I shall not get a word from her majesty upstairs, now that she has you for company. She shall have none of me, though I am so ill.”

Charlotte’s eyes were large and pale blue, lacking health and vibrancy, within a face so thin her cheekbones extended beyond the corners of her mouth. Her dress hung over her bosom in loose folds for she lacked a feminine form. To Darcy, Charlotte looked sickly, and she wondered if it were selfinflicted or the natural course of things. She hoped she could be of some help to Charlotte. Perhaps spending some time with her might lift her mood and bring her around to eating more than the crust on a piece of toast.

“I am sorry you are not feeling well. Perhaps a walk after breakfast around the grounds would help. I will go with you.” Darcy waited for an answer, while Charlotte nibbled on her bread and then set it down, with a heavy sigh, on the edge of a white china plate, edged in gold leaf and blue flowers. Charlotte’s setting was different from the others on the table, and Darcy thought this very odd.

Taking the linen napkin from her lap, Charlotte dabbed her mouth. “A walk would only fatigue me, Darcy.”

“Fresh air and exercise improves the appetite.”

“Yes, I know, and that’s all the more reason for me to avoid it. I do not wish to grow fat.”

“I doubt you would, if you do not mind my saying so. My grandmother would not mind if we leave the house for an hour or two.”

“She forgets that it takes all the strength I have to leave Meadlow, to travel over these weary roads, and sleep in a bed not my own.” Lifting her arm as if weights hung from it, Charlotte brushed her hand over her forehead.

“I imagine it would, especially if you are not feeling well,” Darcy said.

“You are the first to say so.” And Charlotte dropped her arm.

“I’m sure Grandmother is glad for your company. She must be lonely when it is just she and Mrs. Burke.”

“I suppose. But who is to say for certain. She seems content with her servant and her dog.” Charlotte leaned on the table with her chin resting in her hand. “The day has scarcely begun and already I am weary. I should rest upstairs.”

Darcy understood the cool cue. Without another word, Charlotte stood and shambled out of the dining room. The little mantle clock ticked on and Darcy stared at it a moment, then set her cup down on the saucer. She’d waste no more time. She pulled on her cloak, then went outside and breathed in the fresh country air. The urge to explore Havendale excited her, and she walked on toward the open fields. She cared little that she broke with etiquette and did not wait in the house to meet the elusive Mr. Langbourne. He’d meet her soon enough.

Looking about her, she made comparison to her home along the Potomac. Where there had been sunny blue skies, a leaden sky stretched above her. Where the air had been tepid this time of year, here it was moist and brisk. Where the water ran swift over ancient rock ledges jutting up from the riverbed, streams here ran shallow and placid. She had no fear of getting lost and tucked into her memory certain places where stones lay in heaps, where the path turned and left off, where an old willow bent over a brook.

The wind rustled through her unbound hair. Her heart raced and her breath came up short all of a sudden. Ethan had such a hold on her. She paused to lean against a sheep gate, wondered how far his home might be, if she’d ever see him again, if he were in good health.

“Whatever his actions, whatever he may feel toward me now, I pray, oh Lord, help me forgive him.”

She hiked over a hillside, down into a ravine where fog drifted. She paused, lifting her eyes to a plateau of limestone and shale a short distance away where shadows struggled. A moment later, she saw a man stagger into view. From where Darcy stood, he looked the vagabond, a forgotten man, a wanderer poor and needy. His clothing, faded and rag-tagged, hung loose over his thin body.

She held back as a horseman galloped up to the man and blocked his way. The fear and urgency on the poor wretch’s face startled Darcy. The rider’s slouched hat darkened his face. The horse shook its head and reared. It pounded its hooves into the earth, causing the man to stumble backward, raise his arm across his face, and cry out.

Darcy’s heart leapt for fear he’d be hurt.

Like a rush of wind, the horseman bore down on the poor wretch, rearing his horse, swerving the beast to and fro around him. Again and again, the vagabond stuck up his arms as a shield and staggered. The horseman shouted and two men ran forward and secured the man’s arms. He twisted and strained against them. Dragged away, he collapsed and hung his head; his legs limp now, his feet dragging through the dirt.

Wide-eyed, Darcy covered her mouth to stifle a cry. The horseman turned his head. He’d seen her. Then he urged his horse forward, and bolted down the hill toward her. It seemed her blood froze in her veins, a chill passing over her. She lifted her skirts and ran. The beat of the horse’s hooves came up quick behind her. Her hair whipped in front of her eyes and blinded her. She skidded to a halt when the horseman swerved and pulled rein in front of her. She whirled back. He brought the horse around to stop her. She slipped and fell, the ground wet and soaking into her cloak and shoes.

The rider swung off the saddle, his booted feet hitting the turf simultaneously. He reached down and dragged her up. His grip tight, she felt his nails dig through her clothing. She cried out and he shook her.

“Be silent,” he ordered.

“I shall not. Let me go or I will shout again!”

His face came within an inch of hers. His breath, hot and smelling of stale rum, brushed over her cheek. “You saw what went on up there. You’ll not say a word to anyone, you understand.”

She stopped struggling. “Please tell me you meant no harm to that man. At least tell me that, sir, and I will be bound to silence.”

He released her. “He was a poacher. Poaching is a crime.”

“You cannot hate a man that poaches if his family is starving.”

“He has no family to speak of.” He called to his dog, a shaggy gray-colored beast, reached for his horse’s reins and pulled it forward.

“What will happen to him?” she asked.

“That is no concern of yours.” He climbed back into the saddle, his horse sighing under his weight. “At least Havendale is safe from thieves. I know for a fact Madeline Morgan will be content in the knowledge her pheasants are not being eaten by some louse-infested tramp.”

Darcy gathered her cloak across her shoulders. “I haven’t been at Havendale long, but I think I know enough about my grandmother to say she would not turn away a hungry man.”

Silent, he stared down at her from under the brim of his hat. His eyes were piercing, dark like the shale on the hillside. His hair touched his collar, dark and wiry, loose from the binding of crepe ribbon. How rough a man he appeared as the sunlight fell over him.

“Madeline Morgan is your grandmother? Who are you, then?”

“Darcy Morgan … from the Potomac, in Maryland.”

A deeper frown curved his mouth in an instant, and a startled look flashed in his eyes. “Well, Darcy Morgan. You’ll find Havendale to be a cold and lonely place. The sooner you leave it and return home, the better for you.”

He squashed his hat down tight and turned his horse. She watched him canter away over the hill, with his cloak fanning out behind him like the wing of a raven. His wolfish dog sprinted after him. Who the man was she did not know, and hoped with all her might she’d not see him again. Could he be her grandmother’s groundskeeper? Could she afford such a person?

She headed back to Havendale feeling troubled over the incident. There was nothing she could do for the poacher except whisper a prayer for him. But the horseman—she’d never forget his face, or the rough way he handled her, or the promise that Havendale would prove a cold and lonely place. It made her shiver and she quickened her steps.

As she crossed the threshold, Mrs. Burke rounded the corner and bumped into her. “Oh, Miss Darcy. We have had a fright wondering where you had gone. Your grandmother has taken to her bed …”

Darcy hurried to remove her cloak and gloves. “Is she ill?”

“Do not be alarmed. She is just tired and asks that she be not disturbed.” Mrs. Burke whispered, “When there are people in the house she is rarely up to sitting with them—unless it is you. She asks that you see her later.”

“Are you certain? I shall go right up and see her if need be.”

“Quite certain. Mrs. Langbourne is in the drawing room with company. Lord knows where Mr. Langbourne is.”

Darcy glanced down at her soiled dress. Mud was splattered along the hem and her shoes were quite soaked. “I am not at all presentable by Charlotte’s standards, or my own for that matter. I should change.”

The urge to tell Mrs. Burke about the encounter with the horseman and what she saw take place grew to an overwhelming proportion. She motioned to Mrs. Burke to follow her upstairs, and once in her room, she shut the door.

“I met a man out on the moors. To say he did not frighten me would be a lie, for he rode very fierce toward me.”

“Had he narrow, gray eyes?”

“Yes, I believe so.” Darcy slipped out of her soiled dress.

“And a face lined about the mouth?”

“Yes. He was none too handsome, if that is what you mean. He had a dog with him, too.”

Mrs. Burke nodded and squared her shoulders. “Well, miss. You just met Mr. Langbourne. I feel sorry for you.”

“Why? What have I done wrong?” Darcy pulled tight the laces on her bodice and tied them into a bow. “He chased me down. It is Mr. Langbourne you should feel sad for. He’s not a kind man and will reap what he sows.”

“Oh, I do not disagree with you on that score. I meant to say, I feel sorry you had to meet him in that way. Let us hope his visit is short. They almost always are.”

Darcy stepped over to the mirror, picked up a brush and ran it through her hair. “I saw a vagabond at a distance. He looked very hungry.”

“Hmm. He showed up yesterday, and brought a bird to the kitchen door of which I am glad for it. The only time we have a plump pheasant or a quail is when Mr. Langbourne comes to Havendale and goes shooting.”

“So you know the man, you know his name?”

“No on both accounts. But he looked at me with a purposeful stare, as if he knew me. I do not recall ever seeing his face, but his eyes were familiar in a way.”

Thoughtful, Darcy followed Mrs. Burke downstairs to the sitting room, where a pleasant fire crackled in the hearth. Drifting pale gray clouds swallowed the dusty sunlight that flowed through the windows. A few raindrops spattered the windows.

Seated on the settee was a well-dressed woman of middle years with reddish hair and ivory skin, and next to her, Charlotte. Introductions were made, and when concluded, Charlotte stood and moved to an armchair near the fire.

“This dreary weather will go straight to my bones, and I shall be chilled and sick before long,” Charlotte groaned.

Darcy, unsure of what was expected of her, waited.

“I am pleased to meet you, Miss Darcy.” Mrs. Brighton patted the seat beside her and Darcy moved to it. “I gather you are enjoying your stay at Havendale?”

“Yes, ma’am, though the journey was long.”

“I can only imagine. You are a daring girl to have taken the risk.”

“Risk, ma’am?”

“Indeed. For I have no doubt there were many dangers on the way. Thieves on the road, pirates on the sea, and ruffians aboard ship. That is not to say the danger of disease and the appalling food.”

Darcy smiled lightly. “You are speaking from your own experience, Mrs. Brighton? I should like to hear of your adventures.”

Mrs. Brighton giggled. “Oh, mine? Oh, no. These are things I have read and heard.” She paused and looked about the room. “I have been your grandmother’s neighbor these past twenty-eight years, and the color of this room has never changed.”

“You must know my father.”

“Never set eyes upon him, my dear.”

“Oh, I see.” Darcy looked down at her hands, disappointed.

“You shall be meeting my husband shortly. I think he may have met Hayward once or twice.”

Charlotte moaned. “Oh, yes. The prodigal Hayward Morgan and the ever-faithful Mr. Brighton.”

Mrs. Brighton’s brows arched. “Indeed the faithful friend he is, Mrs. Langbourne. Someone has to do it.”

Charlotte shook her head. “It is a waste of his time.”

“Not at all.” Mrs. Brighton leaned toward Darcy. “My husband inspects your grandmother’s mare every other week to give her ease of the animal’s well-being.”

“That is good of him.”

“Yes. She is fond of all her animals, as if they were her children. My husband, Richard, is extremely knowledgeable of horses, and we own several ourselves.”

“Only a half-dozen,” Charlotte pointed out. “And bought at the fair instead of from one of the breeders. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Brighton?”

“Yes, but they are good stock, Mrs. Langbourne. How many does your husband keep at Meadlow?”

Charlotte sighed, Darcy noticing it was her way before answering a question. “I have never bothered to count them, or to ask my husband. It is no business of mine to know, but his.”

Darcy thought how unfortunate that Charlotte was not more involved in her husband’s estate. Whoever she were to marry, she would want to know everything about him, including the number of horses he owned. To Darcy it was a wife’s duty to know all there was to know about the man she’d devote her life to.

Mrs. Brighton picked up where she left off. “Richard has brought along an acquaintance of his who knows a great deal about horses. He was reluctant to come, having never been to Havendale, and no doubt is bored silly by now. Richard can be the talker, you see, and wear people out.”

At that precise moment, the door burst open and in spilled two spotted hounds, followed by a gentleman dressed in brown hunting garb, a flop hat, and riding boots.

“Richard, come meet Madeline’s granddaughter.” Mrs. Brighton stood and pulled Darcy up beside her. “Is she not the picture of what we imagined?”

Mr. Brighton pulled off his hat and bowed. “The very, my dear.” He kissed Darcy’s hand. “But here, perhaps this gentleman has heard of your arrival as well. Word spreads quickly in these parts.”

He turned back to the doorway and opened it wider. And yes, a gentleman of heart-racing good looks and sultry eyes stepped inside the room. At once, his eyes met Darcy’s. Her throat tightened, and she froze at the sight of him. Her pulse pounded like a fist against her breast, a painful throb that caused her to gasp.

Ethan!

Shock spread over his face. A look of confusion surfaced like an unexpected storm in his eyes. He stepped further inside, drew off his hat and turned it within his hands. She glanced away. Why should he look so troubled? She was the one crushed—a leaf underfoot, pressed into the mud. He had Miss Roth, or was she now Mrs. Brennan?

Mr. Brighton put a hand over Ethan’s shoulder. “Brennan, have you heard of Mrs. Morgan’s granddaughter, Darcy, through the grapevine?”

He stared a moment, then bowed. “No, I had not. Welcome to Derbyshire, Miss Darcy.”

Lowering her head, she returned his bow with a curtsey. “Sir.”

She grew conscious that her breathing quickened. Her throat tightened and she could not swallow the emotions raging through her. Mrs. Brighton had turned again to Charlotte, and the two were engaged in conversation with Mr. Brighton. Their words faded, as if they were in a distant part of the house. She and Ethan were alone, with all else unseen around them, the room empty of things and color. He drew up to her and looked down into her face with such desire that Darcy trembled.

“Darcy,” he whispered. She glanced up at him, then away, unable to hold the power of his gaze.

“Darcy, are you not well? You’ve gone positively pale.” It was Charlotte, her voice showing a hint of concern. “Look what you have done to her, Mr. Brennan. You are the cause of this with your good looks and sultry stare.”

Ethan stood back, embarrassed. Darcy, feeling the feverous burn rise in her cheeks as well, turned aside and faced Charlotte.

“You must excuse me. I have a headache.” She strode from the room, unsure of what to do. She hurried down the hallway, saw the door leading to the garden and taking her cloak, swung it over her shoulders and passed outside. The sky overhead looked stormy and the air smelled of rain. What care did she have if the heavens broke open and soaked her to her bones? She had to get out, away from the others—away from Ethan.

She pulled the hood over her hair and hurried over the stony walkway, onto a dirt path that stretched toward a gazebo on the shore of a small lake. When she reached it, she shoved aside the vines that had grown through the lattice and plunged inside with her breath coming up short. Tears pooled in her eyes and she blinked them back. The surface of the lake turned a muted blue under brooding clouds, dark like Ethan’s eyes. Trees shadowed the edge of the water. A flock of starlings crossed the sky, and Darcy followed them with a gaze that ached to let the tears fall, but they would not.

Someone approached, and she moved back into the shadows. The stones in the path crunched under his tread. With nowhere else to go, she turned to face him. What she would say, she did not know. She only knew how confused she felt.

His shadow darkened the vines. His hand moved them back and he drew inside. He gazed at her with sad eyes, and for a moment they stood looking at each other in silence.

“I never doubted your adventurous nature, Darcy. But of all places for you to be, you have come to England?” His eyes had the same warm glow she’d seen before.

“I do not need to explain anything to you.”

“You are right. But if I had known you were here, I would not have come.”

She turned away. “I imagine not.”

“I would not have wished you to feel as you do now.”

“Then you must go. Nothing is keeping you here.”

“Nothing? You are keeping me here, Darcy. You have kept me ever since the day I first saw you.”

“Then why …” A lump formed in her throat and she steeled herself, thinking his words were meant to tempt her and draw her out. Her eyes closed when he laid his hand on her forearm and drew her close.

“We must talk, Darcy.”

“I have nothing to say. Nothing to explain.”

She pushed her way past him, her hands clenched, her arms rigid at her sides, tears stinging her eyes. She hurried off, her hood blown back from her face. Getting away from Ethan and his pained look was all she wanted. She could feel him standing outside the gazebo staring after her.

As she approached the door, she regretted not getting into a full-fledged row with him. And she was curious. Had he married Miss Roth and settled for a dull, loveless life with her? And what about the letter he had sent? The coward! Her mind screamed as she hugged her arms. He could not tell her to her face? He’d broken her heart, and it all came flooding back. He dared to say he was kept by her?

As she passed inside she heard the others in the sitting room conversing, and she paused outside the door.

“Everything has changed now that she is here, Langbourne,” she heard Charlotte say. “I doubt you will get a penny more for your troubles. And I shan’t get her jewels, if she has any of worth.”

For Charlotte to covet her grandmother’s jewelry and have no reservations about announcing her desire for it in front of Mr. and Mrs. Brighton repulsed Darcy.

“I already own the house, and it’s by my good graces that the old woman has stayed on at Havendale.”

“Why, Langbourne.” It was Mr. Brighton. “Only a heartless man would throw an old woman out or place her in accommodations below what she deserves. This is her home and her husband’s house. You do not mean …”

“I mean nothing, except to say Charlotte is my wife and she should have everything in this house, not a girl my aunt knows little of. Where is she anyway?”

“She left a moment ago … and so did Mr. Brennan.”

“Brennan is here?”

“Upon my request,” said Mr. Brighton with a nod. “By your expression, sir, you do not approve. He’s a fine authority on horses, and …”

“Do not bring him here again, not if you intend to keep your appointments at Havendale.” Langbourne sounded bitter. What did he have against Ethan?

Darcy turned her back to the wall and leaned her head against it. The warm welcome she felt vanished. It grew obvious the Langbournes did not want her here.

The shadows in the hallway deepened and cold air whirled around her ankles. Maxwell’s nails tapped over the hardwood floor, and he drew up to her, sniffing the tip of her shoes.

“We know nothing of your business, sir, and should not be drawn into it.” Mrs. Brighton spoke in a manner that shocked Charlotte. “But I must say, to look at Darcy is to look into the eyes of her mother, though they are of a different shade. She seems shy with us, but I have to believe she is truthful and as spirited as Eliza ever was.”

Charlotte laughed. “Oh, that would be a curse upon her.”

“Eliza Morgan was a beauty, Charlotte, unlike your sickly, skinny self,” said Langbourne. “She was everything a man would want in a woman, and although I hate him for it, I do not blame Hayward for wanting her the way he did.”

“The way you also did, Langbourne. Let us not forget …”

“Be quiet, Charlotte. Mr. Brighton, what would you do if you had a jealous wife?” A pause followed with no reply to Langbourne’s question. “I thought so.”

Darcy moved and her shadow fell over the threshold. The dog yapped and whined. They’d seen her, and she had no other choice but to face them. Drawing off her cloak and setting it aside, she wiped her eyes dry and smoothed down the folds of her dress. Gathering her senses, and trying her best to appear as if nothing had happened, she reentered the room. Mrs. Brighton looked over at her, curious. Langbourne, with his boot on the grate of the fireplace, stared at her.

“Ah, there she is, Langbourne.” Charlotte tugged his sleeve. “Is she not savage looking? I suppose most of the girls in America are.”

Darcy met his eyes, piercing and dark. “Savage is not the correct word, Charlotte. Miss Darcy appears civilized, yet …” and he pulled away and drew close, “full of tamed fire, I’d say.”

Charlotte huffed. “Oh, no, Langbourne. You cannot mean it.”

“Emphatically, Charlotte.” He kept his eyes fixed upon Darcy, and she looked away. The heat of the fire eased through her gown and warmed her body.

“Had you lost your way, having taken so long to come back?” he said in a lowered voice, drawing her aside.

How he underestimated her. She had a sense of direction born with her. “No, Mr. Langbourne. You have no reason to ever believe I could lose my way. I stepped out before you came inside.”

“Everyone loses their way at one time or another. I advise that you not wander too far from Havendale. You saw the kind of people who loiter on the land.”

“I do not know what kind of man he is that you caught.”

“His actions speak for him. Be wary, Miss Darcy. When I am not here, there is no man to look after the women in this house.”

“So I shall, sir.”

“And you will keep my business to yourself.”

“Of course.”

“There is no need to trouble Madeline over such a matter as a poacher. It would frighten and shock her, don’t you think?”

A moment’s pause, then Darcy nodded. “I would not wish my grandmother to be alarmed.” Near the window, she glanced out to see if Ethan had come down the path back to the house. Perhaps her reaction had been too harsh toward him.

“Good.” Langbourne gave her a smile from the corner of his mouth. “You look nothing like your father.”

“I am told I do.”

“You have your mother’s face. She was handsome, you know.”

“Everyone has told me she was beautiful. You must have known her.”

“I loved her.”

Astonished at his confession, uneasiness raced through her. How much did he love her mother? Had his feelings remained with him over the years, and would he be kind to Darcy because of Eliza?

A horse whinnied outside in the courtyard. Her head turned, and she glanced back out the window to see Ethan leading a tall horse. “He bought the stallion.” She hoped the horse would always remind him of the day they met, how he almost trampled her, but did not avoid crushing her heart.

“What do you mean?” said Langbourne. “Do you know this man?”

“Slightly,” she said.

“How?”

“I met him in Virginia, when he visited there with his fiancée, Miss Roth.”

“Well, he won’t be back, and he is not permitted in this house. You understand?”

“It is your house, as you have said, sir.” Questions were on the tip of her tongue. But she dare not ask them.

The others gathered closer to see what was going on, what had caught Darcy’s interest.

“Mr. Brennan is leaving,” said Mrs. Brighton.

“Without a word?” asked Charlotte. “How rude of him.”

“He has other business to attend to,” Mr. Brighton said. “He would not divulge the particulars.”

Darcy watched Ethan place his boot in the stirrup. The dappled light, made so by the raindrops, glazed the glass and quivered over her face. She glanced over at Langbourne, marking the look of hatred in his eyes at the sight of Ethan.

Langbourne’s mouth twisted. “We can do without him.”

Oh, but I cannot. Her body trembled with the desire to rush out the door and go to him. I’d be made a fool if I did. He’d ride off, and everyone would laugh at me. Oh, God, forgive me for my hard heart.

She fixed her eyes on his form, how he mounted Sanchet, how his thighs hugged the saddle, the way he drew the reins through his hands and held them. Rain dripped from his hat, soaking the tips of his hair. He looked over at her with an expression of regret. He pressed his mouth taut and turned his eyes away. This time she felt as if his horse had trampled over her, her eyes not leaving him until he, and his horse’s bronze mane and tail, disappeared over the hilltop.